’ ‘Then do it,’ Melusine said with impatience. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Yon must be mine to-night. 144 I think he heard about the backpack and the spitballs finally. You are too credulous. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. Above her head was an aura of white fire. ’ A hand seemed to grip in Melusine’s chest and she hit out. She was a swan among geese, trying to look plain and dowdy. He laughed to hide his uneasiness.
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